


Hole in the World

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: Motel Hell Chronicles [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, But also plot, Getting Together, In the Beginning, Like so much, M/M, Murder Husbands, and he looked at his work and said, god created the heavens and steter, gottdam, i can't deal with them, mildly decent Peter, there's so much smut in this, these boys I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24323473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: "I can make you feel good. I can give you all the things you want from him. All the things he won't give you himself.""Promise?"[The beginning.]
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Motel Hell Chronicles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742245
Comments: 41
Kudos: 429





	1. Great Black Pit

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, hey! Hi! Hello! You look amazing. Did you do something with your hair? You're fantastic!
> 
> I made another thing for you to enjoy! I really hope you like it!
> 
> :D

Stiles resists the urge to clench his fingers in the motel bed sheets as warm breath ghosts along the back of his neck, down between his shoulder blades. He doesn't move a muscle as warm fingers splay wide against the small of his back and slide along his skin to curl around his hip. He keeps his breathing steady and deep as a familiar voice whispers against the shell of his ear, sharp teeth scraping along his jaw. 

“Stiles,” it says, and the young man bites the inside of his cheek as wet lips press kisses down his spine. “I want you. I've wanted you for so long.” It isn't real. It isn't him. “Let me have you.” A broad, warm chest presses against his back. “Let me take you.” Naked hips rut into his ass. “Give yourself to me, Stiles.” A hand reaches around to his front, fingers grazing achingly close to his cock. “I'll make you feel so good.” 

Stiles swallows back a groan, quickly clenching his fingers and calling his runed bat to his hand. The weapon appears instantly, and Stiles turns without a second thought, cracking the bat across Peter's face and kicking the man out of the bed. Peter lands with a surprised, pained noise on the floor, back hitting the other bed before he looks up at Stiles with an angry snarl. The young man wastes no time in swinging the bat against the other's head again, gritting his teeth at the hollow noise it makes against Peter's skull.

Peter crawls, air gurgling in his throat as he drags himself across the floor and blunt fingernails snagging against the carpet. Black blood oozes from his mouth and his nose, tacking one of his eyes shut as it dribbles down his face from a split temple. Stiles stands, taking a few deep breaths before raising the bat high over himself and bringing it down on the other man's head. Over and over and over. 

He's shaking when it's done, when the body on the floor stops moving, stops breathing. Covered in blood, he wipes at his nose, stepping back as his chest heaves. With one last kick to the body's leg, he shifts his gaze to a dark corner of the room and glares.

“Could have stepped in at any time,” he mutters hoarsely, watching as the real Peter steps into the center of the room. Peter's eyes are bright as he glances over the mangled remnants of his double, taking his time to drag that gaze up along Stiles's blood-spattered skin.

“I could say the same for you, darling,” he replies with a lecherous grin. “You let that thing paw at you long enough before you decided to take action.”

“Maybe I was waiting for _someone_ to 'take action' themselves,” Stiles seethes, swinging the bat in his hand around once before it disappears and stepping over the corpse at his feet to meet the other man in the center of the room. He squares his shoulders and tells himself the pounding of his heart is just from adrenalin. “I wasn't expecting you to just stand by and watch me get fucked by an incubus. Using me as bait was your stupid plan.” He shoves a finger into Peter's chest, ignoring how useless the gesture is. It's like poking a brick wall.

“Yes, and you being naked was _yours_ ,” Peter counters, head tilting as he eyes the young man again. “I'm curious. Why do you think that thing chose my form to try and seduce you?”

Stiles hesitates, lungs burning as his chest tightens. He takes a step back before he shrugs noncommittally and shakes his head. “Who knows? We've been hunting it together. Maybe it thought...”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “That we're in a relationship?”

The young man rolls his eyes, pointing his finger again but not touching the werewolf. “I'm taking a shower. Since I took it down, you can get rid of the body.” He juts his chin out towards the table behind the other man. “There's a vial in my bag with green liquid in it. Poor it over the blood stains. They'll evaporate instantly.”

“Well, aren't you handy these days?” Peter murmurs, moving close to the young man then side-stepping around him to deal with the body. 

Stiles stands still for a few moments longer before muttering, “Shut up,” and heading towards the bathroom. “Make sure you bury the head separate,” he says before slamming the door and starting the shower. He turns it to the highest heat setting, watching steam curl towards the ceiling but waiting until he hears the front door of their motel room open and close before he steps in. 

The water runs dark at his feet. He hangs his head and watches it swirl down the drain as droplets and rivulets track their way down his body. His cock is half hard, still—something that Peter for sure noticed but had the decency to keep his mouth shut about. Stiles closes his eyes and raises a trembling hand, wrapping bloody fingers around his shaft and hissing as he strokes himself to full hardness.

“Fuck,” he spits, bracing his other hand against the tiles in front of him and leaning heavily onto his outstretched arm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He doesn't want to be like this. He doesn't want to think about a man who couldn't give two shits about him. He doesn't want to touch himself with Peter's infuriating smirk behind his eyes. He doesn't want to come with the thought of his name on those lips—those lips that he wants everywhere on his body, that tongue that he wants to map every inch of his skin.

Stiles grits his teeth and swallows the whimper at the back of his throat. He doesn't care about those eyes that pierce him with every glance. He doesn't care about those fingers that graze his arm when they're fighting the most current ugly to cross their path. He doesn't care about those teeth that he's imagined sinking into his own skin as Peter fucks into him, hard and painful and so good.

Stiles bites his bottom lip as he comes, stroking himself through his orgasm until the sensation becomes too much, and he's left panting and shaking. He presses his forehead into the tiles and stands under the shower's spray until the water begins to chill. Grabbing a bar of soap, he quickly scrubs at what couldn't be washed away, then shuts the water off and towels himself dry, wrapping the scratchy material around his waist. 

He wipes at the fog on the small mirror above the sink and checks himself for anything he might have missed, running his fingers through his damp hair and staring at his sunken eyes for much longer than is probably sane. Peter isn't there when he leaves the bathroom, and there aren't any traces of blood, so his shitty potion must have worked. He still isn't sure half the time what the hell he's doing when it comes to being a spark. But the belief he puts into his work is real, and, according to Deaton, that's really all they can ask for.

Stiles startles when the front door opens, wide eyes settling on Peter as he enters and closes the door. The older man hesitates with his hand on the doorknob, studying Stiles's face intensely before his gaze sweeps the room. 

“What's wrong?”

Stiles breathes and collects himself, starting towards his bag to find some clothes. “Nothing.”

Peter takes careful steps into the room. “I've been gone for over an hour, and you're still half-naked. I don't presume to think the water heater in this shit-hole lasts that long. Something isn't right. What is it?”

“Jesus Christ, nothing's wrong,” Stiles says, finding a pair of boxers and pulling them on under his towel. He tosses the wet item aside and digs out a t-shirt. “Just shut up and let me go to bed.”

Peter catches his arms just as he pulls the shirt over his head, the garment still rucked up and exposing his chest and stomach. “Forgive me for saying, but your scent seems to speak somewhat louder than your words, Stiles.” The werewolf leans in and inhales deeply. It takes all of Stiles's willpower not to back away. “You smell anxious.”

“Yeah, well, I just bashed in the head of a incubus that was wearing your face, _Peter_. Pretty sure I'm still in shock.” Stiles pulls out of Peter's hold and yanks his shirt down, padding towards his bed and ignoring the growing dread in his stomach as his gaze roves over the sheets where the incubus had put its hands on him. Its lips. Its tongue. Its teeth.

He doesn't realize he's stopped at the foot of the bed until Peter steps up behind him. “We don't have to stay here, if it's going to be a problem.”

“It's not a problem,” Stiles says curtly, closing his eyes when the older man gently places a hand on his shoulder and turns him until they're facing one another. “Peter...”

“Why did the incubus look like me, Stiles?” the werewolf asks, his tone quiet and much more accepting than Stiles was expecting. 

“Tell me something,” Stiles whispers, his throat tight. He opens his eyes and wishes he hadn't. Peter's eyes are blue and blazing with curiosity. “Tell me something only you would know.”

Understanding dawns on the older man's face, and he nods. “The night of the dance you attended with Lydia, in the parking garage, I asked you if you wanted the bite.” He watches Stiles closely, making sure the words sink in. “You told me no. And I told you that your heart said something else.” The young spark swallows and blinks dazedly, letting Peter's voice lull him. “That was a lie. I knew you didn't want to be a wolf. But I was hoping I could convince you to become part of my pack, be the brilliant boy I knew you could be.” 

Stiles nods, accepting the answer and offering one of his own. “I didn't want to be a wolf,” he admits. “I didn't want to become something different. I wanted...” He breathes, his hands coming up to rest on Peter's chest. “I wanted to belong. I wanted to be a part of something. I wanted to be someone. I wanted to...be _someone's_.” He meets Peter's eyes and hopes his next words aren't the biggest mistake of his life. “I wanted to be yours, Peter.”

Peter surges forward, their mouths clashing. And at that moment, the motel door bursts off its hinges, a frantic Peter bounding into the room baring his teeth and growling. Stiles's eyes go wide, and he stares at the Peter-double that's pressed up against him, the imposter's eyes shifting into something unfamiliar and its mouth twisting into a smug smile. 

“Well, this is awkward,” the incubus says before Stiles is whipped around to use as a shield between it and Peter, a clawed hand wrapping around the young man's neck as his back is pressed to the thing's chest. The creature wraps his free arm around Stiles's middle, pulling him tight against itself and backing towards the wall. “Now, now, dog. Play nice, or your little chew toy gets a painful death.”

Stiles darts his right hand out, intent on conjuring his bat, but the incubus snatches his wrist from the air, squeezing it until the sounds of crunching bones and Stiles's pained shout echo in the room. Peter bares his teeth and roars but doesn't move as the thing clenches his hand around the young man's throat again. “None of your tricks, little one.”

Stiles breathes through the pain, pulling his injured wrist to himself and standing on his toes as the creature drags him backwards another few steps. “He's going to kill me anyway, Peter. Just take him down.”

“Mmm, but I can make it hurt, Stiles,” the incubus promises, lips pressed to the shell of the young man's ear. “I can make it unbearable, make it so you die screaming in agony until you choke on your own blood. Or...I can make you feel good.” The hand holding Stiles in place against the creature slides downward slowly, fingers playing with the waistband of Stiles's boxers. “I can give you all the things you want from him. All the things he won't give you himself.” 

Stiles pulls in a tight breath as the thing nuzzles his neck, licking a trail up to the underside of his jaw. He locks eyes with Peter, who watches with pure anger on his face, halfway to beta-shift. “Promise?” he asks breathlessly, and Peter's anger morphs into confused surprise. Stiles turns his head, cranes his neck until he locks eyes with the incubus. The thing has Peter's eyes again, his infuriating smirk. 

“I can make you feel wanted, like you belong.” The incubus nips and kisses its way up Stiles's jaw, sucking the young man's earlobe between his teeth. “You can belong to me, Stiles. You can be mine.”

Stiles gives Peter one last look before turning his head and crushing his mouth to the creature's. He looses a whimper and parts his lips, allowing the incubus's tongue entry as he presses his hips back. Stiles brings his uninjured hand up to fist into the creature's hair, and at that moment conjures his bat. 

The weapon appears straight through the incubus's head, and for a moment, everything is still. For a moment, Stiles shivers in the dead thing's arms, lips still planted firmly against the creature's while he assesses whether his plan actually worked. For a moment, he thinks he made a mistake, and the thing might rip his throat out.

But then the moment passes. Stiles steps away from the creature, letting it fall to the ground as he stumbles towards Peter. The werewolf meets him halfway, turning them so that he's shielding Stiles from the sight of the thing. “Are you alright?”

Stiles nods and clears his throat. “Yeah. I'm fine. I just, uh, need to throw up. And brush my teeth.” He nods to himself like these are both perfectly normal priorities. “It still needs to be decapitated.”

Peter squeezes Stiles's shoulders. “I'll take care of it. Go do whatever you need to do. I'll pack up the car.”

Stiles breathes deeply, thankful that Peter understands that he can't stay in this place for much longer. He snatches a healing draught as well as his toothbrush and some toothpaste from his bag, pointedly ignoring the body on the floor as he slips into the bathroom and promptly upholds his word by puking into the toilet. After rinsing out his mouth and downing the vial's clear liquid, he brushes his teeth quickly and efficiently, making sure to scrub his tongue especially well and tossing his toothbrush in the trash as soon as he's done with it, then stares at the mirror. There's still a bit of steam around the edges from his shower, and he watches it disappear completely, barely feeling the bones in his wrist twist and crack back into place, before exiting the bathroom.

There's no trace of the incubus anywhere. No body, no blood. It may as well have never happened. Fuck, he wishes it hadn't happened. He bared his soul to some disgusting thing that wanted to kill him with sex. Not that there aren't worse ways to go, but Stiles would appreciate being a consensual partner if such an opportunity arises again.

There's a pair of jeans and a hoodie laying out for him on the bed, and he quickly pulls them on, shivering at the thought of wearing anything less. Peter is out by the car, tossing their bags into the backseat as the young man approaches. “Ready?” the werewolf asks, eyeing the purpled skin of his wrist with a questioning frown.

Stiles nods, gingerly stretching his fingers and sliding into the passenger seat as Peter holds the door open for him. The young spark glances into the back of the car, seeing a round object wrapped in one of the motel sheets sitting in the footwell behind the drivers side. Peter shifts in the drivers seat and turns the key in the ignition. 

“I thought it best to keep the head separate from the body this time,” he explains shortly, and Stiles only nods, turning back to face the front and click his seatbelt into place. 

There is a long stretch of silence while they drive, Stiles pressing his head against the passenger window and watching his breath fog the glass. He senses that Peter wants to say something—a great many things—and after the night they've had, Stiles would honestly answer any questions the older man has just to dull the roaring in his head and to keep from falling asleep. 

But the quiet continues. Peter switches the radio on once they're a few miles outside of the shitty town they'd found their way to. And Stiles dreams of darkness and demons wearing the werewolf's face stretched over their own.


	2. Filled With Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Allow me,” Peter says, waiting a moment to give Stiles the chance to pull his hand back from the werewolf's grasp. He doesn't, and Peter's tongue darts out, licking away the ketchup and spreading saliva over his knuckles. 
> 
> Stiles's brain short-circuits. This can't be real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! Huzzah! [I binge-watched The Great on Hulu..Has anyone else watched it??? It's so good!!!]
> 
> You look amazing. Thank you so much for being here!! Enjoy this second chapter!! Third one should be up in a matter of minutes, while I edit it one last time!

They bury the head first, three towns away from the original place they'd encountered the thing. Peter offers to do it alone, but Stiles's legs are cramped and he has to piss, so he gets out of the car, relieves himself in the ditch at the side of the road, and then grabs a shovel. Peter watches patiently from the car as the young man digs. It takes him twenty minutes to make a decent-sized hole—one that the werewolf could have made in seconds. But he senses Stiles needs to expel some pent-up energy, so he keeps quiet and grabs the head from the back seat when the young man is done.

He expects them to bury it and be done, but when the head is tossed into the crudely-dug grave, Stiles stretches out his hand, calling up a flame, and lets the thing burn. They watch it until the flames die down into embers, and then Stiles picks up the shovel and begins to bury it. 

They pass through four more towns before the body gets the same treatment. By late afternoon, they're less than a day's ride from Beacon Hills, and Peter finds them a hotel. It's a step up from the crappy places they've been staying, so Stiles doesn't complain. As soon as they're in the room, he drops his bag on the bed furthest from the door and fishes out his laptop, settling at the desk and opening a word document. He's been cataloging their experiences over the last couple of years, making his own version of a Beastiary. This isn't their first encounter with a incubus, but each brush with the supernatural has its lessons, and Stiles doesn't plan on making the same mistakes twice if he can help it. 

“I'm going to take a shower,” Peter announces, and Stiles hums in confirmation, fingers already furiously typing away. The werewolf sighs and takes what he needs from his bag before heading into the bathroom. He leaves the door open a crack, wanting to keep an ear out just in case, then starts the shower and strips. The first moment beneath the steaming spray has him groaning and leaning into the tiles, head hanging low as he stands and lets the water trail down sore, cramped muscles. It's been a while since they had water pressure this good. He'll have to remember to leave some hot water for Stiles. 

The thought of the young man has him tensing, blood beginning to throb in his heavy cock. He wraps rough fingers around the shaft and just holds his hand there, almost willing his erection to go down. But the past twenty-four hours have been a mess of adrenalin and sexual energy, and his body is having none of that. He huffs as his cock fills, grunting at the first slippery pump of his hand and panting as he becomes rock-hard in seconds. In the past, Peter hasn't needed visual or sensory assistance to get his libido up and going. Sex is a primal instinct for wolves. It just happens. 

But lately—and honestly since first setting eyes on Stiles in the hospital several years ago—Peter has felt a pull towards the young man. There is no denying Stiles is beautiful, and with age he's certainly grown into his looks. The longer hair, the definition of muscle where gangly limbs used to be, the confident set of his broad shoulders. Stiles is magnificent in so many ways. Peter can't help but notice the looks that the young man gives him, the shallow breaths when he doesn't think the werewolf can hear him, the smell of arousal when their hands so much as graze each other. And the amount of times the young spark jerks off in the shower, cursing and moaning Peter's name—it's difficult not to see the attraction between them.

Peter's kept his distance, though, seeing the war in Stiles's eyes whenever the young man lets his guard down. He's afraid. Of his feelings towards the werewolf or of being rejected, Peter isn't sure. Maybe both. The older man thought that maybe the incubus would have finally dropped some of Stiles's defenses, loosened the hold on his feelings towards Peter. But it seems to have had the opposite effect. Stiles has been closed off since they encountered the creature, and its death has brought no ease to his wired nerves.

He'll wait for Stiles to come to him.

And then, perhaps, Stiles will come _for_ him.

Peter tightens his jaw to keep his groan from carrying in the small space, his hand moving faster as heat bubbles in the pit of his stomach. He imagines Stiles laid out before him, eyes dark with want and need, begging Peter to fill him. He sees himself thrusting into the young man over and over, dragging moan after moan from Stiles's lips. He watches the moment that Stiles comes with Peter's name on his tongue, body tensing and trembling and sated.

Peter comes with a strangled noise, clapping his free hand over his mouth to keep the sound from carrying. He strokes himself through his orgasm, uncovering his mouth and sucking in sharp breaths until the last of the pleasure is wrung from him. He shivers against the tile until he has the energy to grab the small bottle of body wash he brought in with him and makes quick work of scrubbing himself. The water is still a decent temperature when he shuts it off and steps out of the shower to towel himself dry. The material is soft and smells like bleach, which is a vast improvement from what they've encountered at most of the shit-holes they stay in. 

After he's pulled on a clean pair of boxers and brushed his teeth, he exits the bathroom, a cloud of steam following him. He rubs at the dampness of his hair with the towel around his shoulders, finding Stiles sitting exactly where he was when he went into the bathroom. 

The young man's fingers falter for a moment as he glances in Peter's direction, gaze flicking over the man's body quickly before he turns back to his laptop. The screen's glow is eerie on his pale skin, highlighting the moles dotting his face and neck. “Good shower?” he asks lightly.

Peter smirks, unsure whether the young man is asking because he heard the werewolf jerk off or because he's genuinely curious. Either reason is fine, but he honestly hopes it's the former. “Exquisite,” he answers, watching Stiles's fingers stutter over the keyboard before falling back into a steady rhythm. “I even left some hot water for you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Stiles mutters, making no move to get up. 

Peter snatches a book from his bag and sprawls on his bed with a content sigh. The comforter and pillows smell clean, and the lack of semen-soaked sheets is a definite improvement. “Why can't we stay in places like this more often?”

Stiles snorts. “Because most of the back-water towns we're forced to find these monsters in don't have five-star accommodations.”

“Oh, darling,” Peter says, not missing the hitch in Stiles's breath at the endearment, “this is a far cry from a five-star hotel.”

“Yeah, well, compared to the places we've been staying in, this is a fucking Hilton.” He glances back at Peter with a wry smile. “They've got room service.”

Peter immediately puts down his book and snags the laminated pamphlet from the nightstand between the beds, glancing over it with a raised eyebrow. “There are three things on this menu. I'd hardly call that room service.”

“Better than vending machines and highway diners,” Stiles points out, saving his work and stretching his arms above his head as he swivels the desk chair around. Peter watches the young man's shirt ride up over his stomach. The hint of abdominal muscles smooths out to pale skin, a dark trail of hair disappearing below his waistband. 

Stiles catches his eye, and lets his arms fall back over the chair, allowing his shirt to ride up a bit more. They stare at one another in silence for several long moments before Stiles huffs and stands. “Guess I'll take that shower now.” He grabs clean clothes from his bag and doesn't make eye contact with Peter as he passes by his bed. “If you're ordering something, I want a cheeseburger. Fries, too.”

“Sure,” Peter says to the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut. The shower starts a moment later, and Peter sighs, rubbing at his eyes tiredly before picking up the phone and dialing the room service number.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles breathes hard as he stands under the spray of the shower. The heat of it burns cold, leaves his skin an angry red. But he can't be bothered to turn the temperature down, doesn't want to. He stares unseeing at a glob of cum on the wall. That's almost assuredly what it is. He's seen enough of his own to know. But it's not his, and it's still wet, so the only other logical assumption is that it's Peter's. 

Stiles had heard the werewolf while he was in the shower, grunting and muffling his groans. They've heard one another jerk off before, it shouldn't affect him the way it does. But the raging hard-on between his legs speaks a different truth.

He reaches forward, tentatively pressing a finger into the cum and grimacing at the texture. It slides down his finger wetly as he pulls his hand away from the wall, watching it string between his fingers as he spreads them. With a hard swallow, he closes his eyes and lowers his hand, gasping as a wet fingertip presses against his entrance. _Jesus, this is so fucked up._ With his other hand, he fists his cock and slowly begins pumping, working the cum-coated finger into himself with every jerk of his hips. He stills for a moment once he's fully inserted the digit down to the last knuckle, raising a leg and bracing his foot along the tub's edge to change the angle. 

He finds purchase with his foot before he starts to move again. It would just figure that he'd injure himself like this. And Peter would find him naked and unconscious with his cum up his ass. Just perfect.

Stiles tries not to think about it, moving his finger in and out of himself and thrusting into his hand. It's good. So good. But it's not enough. He needs to be fuller. He needs more. With shallow puffs of air escaping his lips, he works a second finger into himself, groaning as he crooks both digits and finds his prostate. _Fuck, that's good. Fuck, so good._ He finger-fucks himself in earnest, fist tightening on his cock as he feels the build-up deep in his stomach. He barely has the sense to bite his lips closed as he comes, muffling the groan in his throat. There's absolutely no way that Peter didn't hear it, but as Stiles pants against the shower wall, he can't seem to find it in him to care. 

He cleans himself as quickly as his loose limbs will allow, using Peter's body wash to hopefully mask the scent of the cum he'd fingered himself with. Knowing Peter, he'll smell it anyway. 

And maybe he should. Maybe it's time to release these festering thoughts, wants, aches. Even if Peter doesn't feel the same, at least maybe he'll get some sleep knowing it isn't buried anymore. Being rejected has to be better than this, wasting away in his own body.

He dries and dresses himself, letting the scent of fried, salty food pull him into the other room. Peter is at the small dining table by the window, already taking a huge bite of what looks like a chicken sandwich. Stiles sits across from him, lifting the lid on his own plate and plaintively ignoring the flare of the older man's nostrils, the stiffening of his back. “I had to use your body wash, I'm out. Sorry.” He shoves a couple of the steak fries into his mouth and sighs happily as they burn his tongue.

“Not a problem,” Peter says, voice strained as he clears his throat. “It suits you.”

Heat rises into Stiles's face unbidden, and he averts his gaze. Lettuce, onion, pickles, and tomato are spread out along the edge of the plate. Stiles removes the top bun from his burger and piles the condiments on messily, grabbing a ketchup packet and opening it with his teeth. He gets most of it on the burger, but a bit of it squelches onto his fingers. Before he can think to lick it off himself, Peter's hand darts out, curling around the young man's wrist and pulling his ketchup-smeared fingers towards his mouth. 

“Allow me,” Peter says, waiting a moment to give Stiles the chance to pull his hand back from the werewolf's grasp. He doesn't, and Peter's tongue darts out, licking away the ketchup and spreading saliva over his knuckles. 

Stiles's brain short-circuits. This can't be real. 

Peter doesn't stop licking when the ketchup is completely cleaned from Stiles's fingers. In fact, he takes Stiles's fore and middle finger all the way into his mouth, tongue pressing against the space between them and setting off fireworks behind the young man's eyes. The image of Peter's tongue wrapped around the fingers he'd had up his ass not ten minutes ago bypasses the _spank bank_ and plows straight into _come untouched_ territory. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

And then Peter is releasing Stiles's fingers with a soft sucking noise, hand uncurling from the young man's wrist. “Delicious,” he breathes with a smirk. 

Stiles's hand hangs in the air where Peter left it, his brain working overtime to tumble through the words he needs. “It's just...ketchup.” 

Peter licks his lips and raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

In the next moment, Stiles is up out of his chair, bumping into the table in his attempt to get to the older man. He sinks into Peter's lap like he belongs there, like he fits, and he crashes their mouths together. It feels different than it did with the incubus. It feels real and warm. Stiles's hands flutter to Peter's face and hold him still as he kisses him, his tongue gliding along the seam of the older man's lips until Peter opens to him. He runs his tongue over blunt teeth, wondering what it would be like if they were sharp and wrapped around his neck, sinking into skin and muscle and drawing blood. His hips jerk forward at the thought, and they both break the kiss with a gasp, staring at one another wide-eyed. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Stiles breathes, flailing as Peter stands suddenly, his hands clenching beneath the young man's thighs to keep him steady. 

“If you insist,” the werewolf growls, turning and shoving Stiles onto the younger man's bed. 

Stiles bounces against the mattress, his heart beat going erratic as Peter crawls over the top of him, knees spreading his legs apart so that he can settle on top of Stiles between them. Peter searches the young spark's eyes for a long moment, Stiles carefully reaching up and running his hands up the werewolf's naked chest, over his shoulders and neck, until he's cupping the man's face. 

“Peter?” he whispers in question, wondering at the pause in the man's actions.

“Tell me this is something you want, Stiles,” Peter pants, nearly shaking to keep himself from ravishing the younger man. “We can stop at any time, all you have to do is say so. But I need you to tell me you want this before it goes any further.”

Stiles is nodding before Peter even finishes speaking. “I want this,” he admits, desperately bucking his hips to find some friction. “I've wanted this for so long.” His mouth drops open and his head falls back as Peter presses Stiles down into the mattress with his body, rutting against him. “I want you, Peter. Please.”

Peter shoves Stiles's shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside and plunging back down to bite and lick his way down Stiles's neck. “I've wanted you all to myself for so long,” he confesses, finding a nipple and sucking it to hardness. Stiles arches beneath him, whining low in his throat. Peter wants to fill that throat with his cock, choke those sounds from him. “I couldn't stand holding back.” He trails his tongue down the young man's trembling stomach. “Touched myself so many times to keep from taking you.”

He leans back and removes Stiles's boxers, staring at the lithe body he's only seen splayed out before him like this in his head. “Beautiful,” he purrs, and Stiles's face heats.

He's been called a great many things, mostly derogatory. By his friends, his teachers, his own father. The people he slept with in his first—and only—year of college made sure to drive into his head that he wasn't anything more than a _slut_ , a _cum bucket_ , a _whore_. Everyone was out having sex, finding their one-and-only, and somehow he was the odd one out, unable to find a single person that felt truly right. 

He and Peter fight and bicker relentlessly. The older man is infuriatingly intelligent and flexes that fact as often as possible. Stiles can't stand the music he listens to or the movies he watches, and Peter is endlessly annoyed by the amount of babble that spews forth from the young man's mouth.

They are perfectly imperfect for each other. And, somehow, that works.

“Stiles,” Peter says, and the young man blinks back into the moment, feeling the man's fingers caress his face. “Back with me?”

Stiles huffs and nods. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing thickly and running his hands up Peter's muscled arms. “Sorry.”

Peter shakes his head fondly. “Don't be,” he says, brushing the young man's still-damp hair back from his forehead. “Don't _ever_ be. Not with me.” He leans down and peppers the young man's lips with kisses. “Do you have lube?”

Stiles shudders at the question, heat pooling into the pit of his stomach. “In my bag. Outer pocket.”

Peter kisses him long and hard one more time before standing and finding the object in question. He strips himself of his boxers before coming back to the bed, and Stiles sits up on his elbows, drinking the sight in hungrily.

“Like what you see?” the werewolf asks with a grin. 

Stiles's breath whooshes out of him in a staccatoed gust. “Fucking hot,” he mumbles, and Peter chuckles, tossing the bottle of lube onto the bed beside the young man and climbing back onto him. 

“I'm glad you think so.” Peter starts a trail of open-mouthed kisses down Stiles's body, the young man sinking back onto the mattress and closing his eyes against the sensations. He throws his head back when Peter sucks at the skin in the crease between his thigh and his groin.

“Fuck!” he curses loudly, shivering as the man plants kisses along his hipbone and moves to mirror his actions on Stiles's other side. 

“I do like how you come undone, darling,” Peter murmurs, licking a wide stripe up Stiles's cock before taking him into his mouth and swallowing him down all the way. Stiles cries out, fingers clenching into Peter's hair and squeezing for all he's worth. The older man doesn't stop him, just holds his hips to keep him from bucking too hard. Peter bobs his head a few times, getting used to the feel of the young man before he settles at the base of Stiles's cock and holds himself there. 

Stiles looks down as Peter releases his grip on his hips, the man's blue eyes looking up at him expectantly. “Seriously?” Stiles asks with some incredulity. Peter's only answer is the quirk of one side of his mouth and a wink. Stiles releases one of his hands from Peter's hair to run his thumb along the older man's lips where they're stretched around his cock. He pulls back an inch and slides back into Peter's mouth experimentally, moaning at the sensation. “Holy shit. Peter, holy shit.” He clenches his hand in the werewolf's hair, and manages a few more shallow thrusts before pulling out almost all the way and slamming back into the man's throat. 

Peter groans and swallows around him, and Stiles pants and starts up a steady, harsh rhythm, fucking into the man's mouth with a litany of curses and noises he's never heard himself make. When his hips stutter, he loosens his hold on Peter's head and manages to slow his pace. “I'm gonna come,” he warns, crying out when Peter takes hold of his hips again and bobs at an unrelenting speed. Stiles sees white behind his eyes when he comes, Peter swallowing everything and continuing to pump him with his mouth until the young man is completely spent. 

Stiles lays boneless and panting under the older man as Peter kisses a trail back up his flushed, sensitive skin. He captures Stiles lips with his own, and the spark tastes the heady saltiness of himself. “How was that, sweet boy?”

Stiles breathes in deeply at the endearment, a satisfied sigh leaving him as Peter lays kiss after kiss over his face and neck. “Amazing.”

Peter chuckles into the hollow of Stiles collarbone. “Good.” The older man raises his head, and Stiles opens dazed eyes to meet his gaze. “I hope I haven't over-taxed you. There's something else I'd like to try.”

Stiles hums and raises a boneless arm, fingers trailing up the man's neck and thumb rubbing into the stubble on his jaw. “Everything,” he says with a lazy grin. “I want to try everything.”

Peter laughs and kisses him gently. “Let's work our way up to that. For now...” 

Stiles hears a lid pop open, and his legs spread with anticipation. “Yes,” he says, stretching beneath Peter and loosing a breathy groan. “Yes, Peter.”

“Turn over,” the older man commands, moving out of the way so that Stiles can comply. Stiles presses the side of his face into the clean comforter, fingers clenching at the fabric as he raises his hips in expectation. Peter takes his time to run his hand down Stiles's back, grabbing the cheeks of the young man's ass and spreading them. Stiles feels the man's hot breath on his entrance, and he clenches his hole and moans into the bed. 

“It smells like I've already come in you,” Peter growls, pressing the flat of his thumb against Stiles's hole. The young man jolts and writhes in his hold. “Have you been a naughty boy, Stiles?”

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes into the comforter, shoving his hips back. “I wanted to feel you inside me. I wanted your mark in me, to know...to know...” 

“To know what?” Peter asks, pressing his thumb against Stiles's entrance but not breaching the tight ring. Stiles shoves his face into the bed and shakes his head, releasing a sound like a sob. “To know that you belong to someone?” The young man stills, the knuckles of his fingers turning white as he clenches at the comforter beneath him. “To know you belong to me?”

“Peter,” Stiles pleads, but the older man is unrelenting. 

“You want to be claimed,” Peter states matter-of-factly, reaching down and massaging the young man's balls. “You're part of a pack, but that's not enough for you, is it?” Stiles writhes against the bed, and Peter pulls away from the young man, slicking his fingers with lube and pressing two to Stiles's hole. “You want someone who calls you _theirs_.” He pushes in, and Stiles keens. Peter places a hand on the small of the young man's back to keep him still, to keep him from fucking back onto the older man's fingers. “You want _me_.”

“Yes!” Stiles wails, shouting curses into the mattress as Peter slowly continues to press his fingers into him. The burn is amazing. Cleansing. It tears through him like a wildfire, rids him of every touch from another person he's ever felt. “Yes, Peter, I want you. I _only_ want you. I want to be yours. _Please_. Please, just take me.”

The part of Peter that isn't consumed with instinct falters, wondering if this is taking advantage of the young man's insecurities. Stiles has already admitted to wanting Peter, but is the _want_ that the young man feels being mistaken with lust? Does Stiles really want to be Peter's, or is he just filling a need with the person he's spent the most time with?

Peter's instincts take over again quickly, shoving his thoughts aside for another time as he thrusts his fingers forward down to the bottom knuckle. Stiles shouts, and Peter begins to piston his fingers in and out of the young man, dragging curses and guttural noises from Stiles's throat as he stretches him enough for a third finger. When it enters him, Stiles jolts, panting and grinding his hips down onto the bed as his cock fills and hardens again. 

“Ready for me, Stiles?” Peter asks through clenched teeth, crooking his fingers and watching the young man's mouth fall open. 

“Yes. Yes, Peter, fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Stiles says between each thrust of the man's hand. He whimpers as Peter pulls his fingers out of him but gasps when the man presses the head of his slick cock against his hole. “Yes, Peter, please. Please, please, please.”

Peter enters him slowly, thrusting in inch by agonizing inch, until he's fully sheathed by the young man. He grunts and leans forward, pressing his chest along Stiles's back and letting him adjust. 

“Fuck,” Stiles pants into the bed. “Fuck, you're huge.”

Peter huffs a bark of laughter, and the jolt of it travels up Stiles's spine. “No need to stroke my ego, sweetheart, I already like you.”

Stiles chuckles, groaning when the sensation reaches places he didn't know was possible. “Do you like me enough to fuck my brains out?”

Peter's fingers curl around the young man's hips. “Happy to oblige,” he says, leaning close before murmuring into Stiles's ear. “Hold onto something.”

Stiles barely has time to grab hold of the headboard before Peter pulls out almost all the way and slams back into him. Stars speckle in the corners of the young man's eyes, and he drags in a long breath, which is punched out of him as Peter thrusts into him again. The older man quickens his pace as he moves inside Stiles, his grunts drowned out by the indecent moans the young spark is making. They're something straight out of a porno, and Peter has a feeling he won't last much longer if Stiles keeps it up. 

Stiles falls to his elbows, the new angle causing Peter to hit his prostate on every thrust. “There. Yes. _Fuck_.” He grabs his own cock and starts to pump it in time with the older man's brutal force. 

Peter feels Stiles clench around him, hears the shout of his release, and it only takes a few more stuttered pumps of his hips before he's coming into the young man. He probably should have asked—it's only good manners—whether Stiles wanted Peter to come inside him. The mess can be a bitch to clean. But with his last few stilted thrusts into Stiles, he's glad he did. He wants the young spark to smell like him, to feel the warmth of his cum inside him and crave it again. 

With an exhausted groan, Peter carefully pulls out of Stiles and collapses on the bed beside him. They lay next to one another and breathe heavily for several minutes until Stiles turns over onto his back, grimacing at the feel of cum sliding out of him. “Fuck, that's going to hurt tomorrow,” he says, laughing when Peter swats him in the side. 

Their eyes meet, and Peter raises a hand to run the backs of his fingers along Stiles's cheek and down his jaw. “How do you feel?”

Stiles closes his eyes and takes Peter's hand in his own, pressing kisses into the man's palm and wrist. “Thoroughly fucked.” He laughs again and squeezes the hand in his. “And good.” He meets Peter's eyes once more. “Really good.”

Peter nods his approval, grunting as he sits up and leans over the younger man, pressing gentle kisses to his mouth for a few moments. “I'm going to find something to clean us up,” he murmurs against Stiles's lips, sucking and nipping at them playfully before rolling off the bed and heading towards the bathroom. Stiles watches him go and sighs into the room in content. His stomach grumbles, and he remembers the cheeseburger that's still on the table. It's probably cold by now, and the thought makes him frown up at the ceiling. 

“Waste of a perfectly good burger,” he mutters as Peter re-enters the room with a warm wash cloth and a glass of water. “You couldn't have waited to suck my fingers into your mouth until after I'd finished eating?”

Peter chuckles. “Forgive me, darling. The moment overtook me.” He leans down and presses a kiss into Stiles neck before cleaning the young man thoroughly. Stiles is far too tired to bother with being shy about it—the man did just have his dick inside him, after all. “Come on, let's move to the other bed.” 

Stiles takes Peter's offered hand and groans as the man pulls him up, smiling when Peter presses their bodies together and sways them side to side. “Didn't figure you for a dancer,” he says, wrapping his arms around the older man's shoulders. 

“I'd love to show you sometime,” Peter murmurs against his ear, turning them and settling Stiles on the edge of the clean bed. “Drink this.” He presses the glass of water into the young man's hand. “I'll warm up your food.” 

Stiles obeys, downing the entire glass at once and accepting a refill while his food is in the microwave. He eats half of his burger in three bites and laughs as Peter feeds him fries in between salt-laced kisses. They make out like teenagers until Stiles's eyelids begin to droop, and then Peter pulls the comforter up over them and wraps his arms around the young man from behind.

Stiles falls asleep to the feel of Peter's lips pressed to the back of his neck.


	3. Not For Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have ached for you since the moment I saw you. I will always belong to you, whether you want to be mine or not. I will never not want you, beautiful boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another thing completed! If only I could crank out other fics as quickly as I've been able to work on this series...
> 
> I do plan on continuing with some stories here and there, but they might be more sporadic. I definitely love what I've created so far, and I can't wait to keep going, but there are other series that need my attention. This is what I get for having too many things to work on at once. D:
> 
> But I sincerely hope you have enjoyed everything so far! You are wonderful and amazing, and I'm so glad you're here! Have an amazing day, my friend! Stay safe and healthy!

Stiles wakes to glorious ache. He stretches and turns onto his back, groaning in relief and pain. His entire body is singing, alight and aflame all at once. 

And his bladder is also uncomfortable with the insistent urge to pee. He huffs in annoyance and turns his head to find the other half of the bed empty. There's a note in Peter's looped scrawl on the other pillow stating the older man went out to find them breakfast. Stiles drops the note back on the pillow when he's finished reading it and stretches one more time before convincing himself to sit up, hissing as he is suddenly aware of every muscle in his body, especially, it seems, the ones below his waist. He breathes through the burn and manages to get to his feet, snatching his boxers from the floor and just barely managing to slide them on—bending down is a feat in and of itself. Limping into the bathroom, he relieves himself with a sigh, washing his hands and quickly brushing his teeth with Peter's toothbrush and cinnamon toothpaste that the werewolf left by the sink.

The hotel room door suddenly opens and closes, and then Peter appears in the bathroom doorway with a drink carrier and a paper bag, smiling as Stiles straightens from spitting toothpaste into the sink. “I was hoping I could sneak back before you woke,” he says, walking further into the room. Stiles rinses his mouth and follows the man, looking over the breakfast sandwiches and coffee from a nearby shop.

“Oh my God, I could kiss you,” the young man says as his stomach gurgles with hunger.

Peter chuckles and turns towards him with a raised eyebrow, arms circling Stiles's waist as he pulls the young spark flush against himself. “Oh, could you?”

Stiles smiles into the kiss. It's sweet and soft. He could wake up with Peter for the rest of his life and never tire of kisses like this. 

The older man dots Stiles's chin and jaw with pecks of his lips. “Have some breakfast,” Peter says, placing an iced coffee in front of Stiles's chair and pushing the empty bag and drink carrier towards the other end of the table. Stiles sits, making an uncomfortable noise and catching the werewolf's gaze. It's a mix of pride and concern.

“I'm alright,” the younger man says quietly, smirking as he takes a sip of his drink. The mix of coffee with the cinnamon toothpaste is disgusting, but he's thirsty. “Sore, but good.”

Peter holds his hand out. “I can take the pain for you, if you'd like.”

Stiles considers it, then shakes his head. “I like feeling it,” he admits, meeting Peter's heated gaze and huffing in laughter. “I like feeling you.”

Stiles sets his coffee on the table and unwraps the breakfast sandwich that Peter hands him. “What time is checkout?” he asks around a bite of sausage and egg white. 

Peter sits and takes a bite of his own sandwich, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. “I booked the room for another night.” Stiles raises an eyebrow. “I know you were set on making it home today, so I understand if you'd rather leave this morning. We can probably make it home by nightfall, if we don't stop too often.”

“No, it's fine,” Stiles says, his heart pounding at the thought of more time with Peter. “Another night away from Beacon Hills won't hurt.” Well, maybe. The younger man is sort of hoping for quite a bit of hurt, if he and Peter can repeat some of the things from last night. And perhaps try a few new things, as well. 

“Good,” Peter says, sitting back in his chair. “As much as I'd love to say it was for the selfish reason of having you all to myself for the day, I must admit that I have some work to do.”

“Work?” Stiles shoves the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth and licks his fingers before wiping them on a napkin. 

Peter watches the action with rapt attention but sighs and takes a sip of his own coffee—hot with two sugars and a splash of cream. “The Hale assets won't handle themselves, I'm afraid. And neither will my law firm.”

Stiles forgets sometimes that the man has a life outside of the supernatural. Peter could live his entire extended life without working and still not spend even a quarter of the Hale fortune. But Stiles knows that the work keeps him grounded, makes him feel normal.

The young man nods and stretches in his chair, very aware of the gaze on his body. “I guess that means you don't have time for a shower?”

“I don't have any calls to make until after ten,” Peter replies coolly, the only sign of his interest being a flash of his eyes. 

Stiles smiles and stands abruptly, leaning over Peter until their lips are barely a breath apart. “Good. Because I want to see how much of you I can swallow.” Shoving his boxers down and stepping out of them, the young man saunters to the bathroom with a glance over his shoulder. Peter stands and follows him with purposeful strides, entering the bathroom just as Stiles is starting the shower. 

The werewolf rips his shirt over his head and starts to undo his belt, but Stiles places his hands over the other man's, moving them aside and slowly undoing the belt himself. Peter watches the younger man pop the button on his jeans and lower the zipper, dipping his hand to rub his hard on through his boxers. 

Stiles's mouth drops opens with a harsh breath. “Know I already said this, but, fuck, you are huge.”

Peter grunts as the younger man squeezes him. “Don't feel obligated to do anything, darling. I won't enjoy it if you don't.”

Stiles smiles and kisses the man deeply. The sentiment is sweet and certainly appreciated. But Stiles has deep-throated before. Maybe not someone of Peter's length and girth, but that just makes it all the more intriguing. He wants to know Peter. Every inch of his body. The weight of his cock on his tongue. The taste of his cum.

“I can't wait to get my mouth around you,” Stiles gasps, fingers digging into the waistband of Peter's underwear. “I'm hard just thinking about it.” He drops to his knees, dragging the older man's pants and boxers down and staring up into Peter's flashing eyes. “I want to feel your cum in my throat, Peter. I want to swallow everything you give me.”

Peter grips the back of Stiles's head as the young man runs the flat of his tongue along the tip of his cock over and over, licking precum from his slit and looking up at him through long lashes. “Shower,” the werewolf manages to growl, and Stiles gets back on his feet, kissing Peter with the taste of the older man in his mouth. Peter maneuvers them until they're under the warm spray, his back shielding Stiles from the onslaught of the water as the young spark drops to his knees again. 

He starts at the base of Peter's cock and runs his tongue along the underside of it all the way to the tip then takes the head into his mouth and sucks lightly. Peter groans and puts both hands on the tiles above Stiles's head, not altogether certain that he'll be able to stop himself from fucking into the wet heat of the young man's mouth if he touches him. Stiles bobs down a few more inches, stopping and letting his tongue swirl around the shaft while pumping what he can't reach yet with his hand. He moves back and forth along those few inches, hollowing his cheeks and taking a little more at a time. 

The tip of Peter's cock hits the back of Stiles's throat, and the young man swallows, taking him deeper and moaning around him. The pace is agonizing, and Peter's thighs quiver with the need to thrust and take and claim. Stiles sucks his way down the man's shaft, the noises obscene and filed away for later use, and then suddenly his mouth is stretched around the base of Peter's cock, and the look he gives the werewolf almost makes him come. 

Stiles doesn't pull back. He hums and he swallows and he sucks, watching Peter the entire time. The older man pants above him, clawed fingers scratching against the tile as he watches the young spark in wonder. The sensations almost don't seem possible. Stiles's throat is tight and hot to the point of burning. Shock waves of pleasure ripple up his spine, and he barely has time to warn the young man before his vision whites and he's spurting down the young man's throat. 

Stiles swallows him through it, pulling off of him gently and breathing raggedly against Peter's thigh as the older man sags into the wall. 

“What...?” is all the werewolf manages past the haze of his thoughts. He honestly can't find the brain cells to piece two words together. 

Stiles chuckles, and the sound is rough but happy. “Perk of being a Spark—magical blowjobs.” 

“Fuck,” Peter says, pulling the young man to his feet and pressing him into the shower tiles. He licks into Stiles's mouth until they both have to break for air, and then he leans his forehead into the young man's shoulder. “Still sore?” He reaches down and presses two fingers flat against Stiles's hole without waiting for an answer. It's still slightly stretched, and the young man gasps and groans, lifting himself up onto his toes as Peter presses harder. “Want me to lick it better?”

“Shit, Peter,” Stiles moans, head falling back and giving the other man access to his neck. Peter sucks hard on the exposed skin, laving at the marks he leaves behind. A content noise rumbles in his chest at the thought of Stiles discovering that he won't be able to hide them with a shirt or a hoodie. They'll be in plain sight for everyone to see, a clear claim on the young man.

“Face the wall,” Peter commands, and Stiles shivers, turning in the man's hold and pressing back against him. The werewolf dips his head and runs his tongue along the back of Stiles's neck before dropping to his knees and taking the young man's ass in his hands.

Stiles makes a punched out noise and shudders as Peter leans forward, spreading his cheeks and breathing hot air on his sore entrance. “Peter,” is all he manages before the older man runs the flat of his tongue over the hole and covers it with his mouth, sucking gently until Stiles is whimpering for more. He breaches the ring of muscle with his tongue, swirling it just along the inside of the rim then pulling out and blowing a stream of cool air against him.

Stiles clenches and gasps, begging the man to enter him again. Peter repeats the process of licking and sucking before shoving his tongue into the young man almost all the way. Stiles cries out and grinds himself against the tile, cursing and calling Peter's name as the older man thrusts in and out with his tongue over and over, harder and harder. Peter can taste himself in the young man still, and he growls in approval, shoving his tongue as deep as it will go and reveling in the noise he pulls from Stiles's throat. 

He works a finger in as he continues to tongue-fuck him, and the low moan that Stiles makes has Peter's cock filling again. His finger glides inside the young man, spit slicking its way, and Peter soon adds another, scissoring and crooking them alongside his tongue. Stiles is all but sobbing into the tiles, humping the wall in time with the thrust of Peter's fingers. The stretch hurts in the most amazing way, and when Peter gives a particularly harsh jab, the sensation crackles up Stiles's spine and he comes against the shower tiles with Peter's name on his lips. 

Peter removes his fingers as the young man comes, but continues to lick into him until he's spent. He stands quickly, turning the young man around and pumping himself hard and fast as Stiles stares back at him dazedly. It doesn't take long for the older man to find his release again, his cum coating Stiles's stomach and mixing with the young man's there. Peter presses Stiles back against the tiles as he pants, running his fingers through the mess. 

“That feels gross,” Stiles breathes, closing his eyes and furrowing his eyebrows but making no move to stop the older man. 

“Whoever can smell it will know you're taken,” Peter explains lightly, making patterns in the cum as he rubs it into Stiles's skin.

Stiles opens his eyes and meets the man's gaze, raising a hand to cover Peter's and halt his actions. “Am I, Peter?”

Peter studies the young man carefully, choosing his words before saying them. “I heard you,” he whispers. “With the incubus. Before I could break down the door of the motel, I heard what you said. What you want.” Stiles looks away from the werewolf, but Peter cups his face with his free hand and brings their gazes back together. “I'll stop if you want me to, Stiles. Your word is all I need to let what we've had over the last several hours go.” Sound seems to flee from around them until all Peter can hear is the patter of Stiles's heart and the harsh sounds of his breathing. “But know this—I have ached for you since the moment I saw you. I will always belong to you, whether you want to be mine or not.” 

Stiles's breath hitches, and his eyes glisten as Peter leans forward to brush his lips against the corner of the young man's mouth. 

“I will never not want you, beautiful boy.”

Stiles turns his head and kisses Peter with a needy noise, and the older man swallows it down. They kiss until their mouths are sore and their tongues are raw. They kiss until the chill of the water makes them shiver, and then they quickly clean and dry themselves. They kiss as they stumble from the bathroom and tumble onto Peter's bed with silly giggles and desperate gasps of air. They kiss until Peter notices the time and groans into Stiles's chest. 

“It's time to get some work done, isn't it?” Stiles pants, fingernails scratching at the short hairs at the nape of Peter's neck. 

“Unfortunately,” Peter agrees, sighing and pressing a few more quick kisses to Stiles's mouth before standing and finding some clothes. 

“All work and no play, Peter,” Stiles says with a huff, stretching across the bed and burrowing his head into the pillows. 

“We've had far too much play, as it is, darling. I think a little work will do us some good.”

Stiles groans in disapproval but doesn't refute the statement. He grabs his phone from the nightstand and unlocks it with his fingerprint, sifting through his messages and emails. He frowns as he opens an email that was sent earlier in the morning. “One of my contacts says there might be a vamp nest here in town.”

Peter falters as he pulls his shirt down, eyebrows furrowing. “Sounds a little coincidental. Did you tell them we'd be here?”

“No,” Stiles says, scrolling through the email and glancing over the details. “But we're close enough to Beacon Hills. Maybe they knew we'd be passing through on our way home.”

“We can look into it later.”

Stiles sits up and puts his phone down on the bed. “Or I can go check it out while you're doing your boring work.”

“Absolutely not,” Peter says sternly. “A vampire nest isn't something you take on by yourself.”

“I said 'check it out,' not 'take it on,'” Stiles argues, standing and crossing the room to root through his own bag for clothes. “I can do some recon, and then we can deal with it together later, if I find anything.”

Peter wraps warm fingers around the young man's shoulder and turns him until they're facing one another. “Sweetheart, if there's anything I've learned from working with you all these years, it's that 'recon' is very rarely just 'recon.'”

Stiles sighs and steps away from Peter's touch to pull on a pair of boxers and a tattered pair of blue jeans. “And if there's anything you've learned from working with me all these years, it should be that I can take care of myself.” He pulls a t-shirt over his head and shrugs into a wrinkled flannel. “I'll be careful. I'll call you as soon as I find anything. And I won't go into the nest without you.”

Peter's jaw clenches as he resists the urge to counter the young man's claim. Magic aside, Stiles is still a fully capable human and a dangerous contender. But that doesn't mean Peter can't worry about him. 

“The second you find _anything_ ,” Peter reiterates, watching the young man grin as he snatches his phone from the bed and backs away towards the door.

“Promise,” Stiles says. And then he's gone, leaving Peter with an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles had fully intended on keeping his promise.

Too bad the vampires tracking him from the hotel don't respect verbal agreements. 

The young man makes it a block before he senses them, his fingers tightening on his cellphone as he debates calling Peter. They'll be on him before he can get two words out. He can't turn back towards the hotel, they'll grab him before he takes two steps. He considers trying to fight them off until he can escape, but the further he reaches his magic out, the more he realizes there are far too many for him to take on himself.

He walks calmly down the street, begging his heartbeat not to betray his nerves, until a bar comes into view. Someone staggers out of the doorway, dropping a glass bottle and cursing as it shatters on the sidewalk. Stiles takes the distraction and ducks into the bar, quickly tapping out a message to Peter. Before his thumb can press _send_ , however, his phone is snatched from his hand and he's shoved against the bar, his head pressed to the dirty counter top by a strong, cold hand.

“Creeper Wolf, huh?” a voice drawls above him, reading the contact name that Stiles has for Peter. He's never been more relieved to not have the older man's real name in his phone. “Kinky.” There's stale breath against his ear, and he squirms against the hold without any success at breaking it. “Is this the guy that you're screwing?” Stiles stays quiet, glaring at the people at the end of the bar. They're human, that much he can tell. But they're sitting and drinking beer like nothing is happening. 

_Fucking bug-eaters._

“Must be,” the voice continues listlessly. “You stink of werewolf spunk, kid. You his mate, or something?” Again, Stiles says nothing, grunting when his head is lifted off the counter and slammed back down. “It's polite to answer when you're asked a question.”

Stiles gasps as he's whipped around and pressed hard against the bar counter, his back cracking. “Gonna shove my fist down your throat, you pointy-teeth bastard.”

The vampire laughs in his face. He looks like a hippie-reject from the seventies. “Got a mouth on you, kid.” He grabs Stiles's jaw and squeezes, forcing the young man's lips apart. “You any good with it?”

Stiles jerks his head out of the vampire's grasp, gritting his teeth as the creature presses against him. “I'll show you what I'm good with, mother fucker.” He bucks up and headbutts the vampire, sliding off the bar past him as his friends growl and hiss and swarm. Their teeth sharpen and their eyes turn black. 

Stiles manages a few good hits, conjures some mountain ash to fend some of them off. But in the end, there are too many. He feels the sharp sting of teeth on his shoulder first, then on his arms and his chest, his collarbone and his neck. So many at once, his blood pulled in different directions and making him light-headed in seconds. 

Wet lips press against the back of his ear. “We don't appreciate wolves in our territory,” the hippie vampire says as his nest continues to suck Stiles dry. “You'll be a good message to remind him of that.”

Stiles drags in a breath, blinks against the swimming of his vision, and pulls his magic tight into the core of his being. “I can send my own messages, thanks.”

Scorching fire bursts from him in torrents, in waves, in whirlwinds of blazing heat. The vampires around him barely have time to realize what's happened before they're gone, and the young spark is left alone in the bar with nothing but the swirl of ashes and the scent of burnt flesh.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles stumbles his way down an unfamiliar alley, fingers grazing the brick wall as his vision fades in and out. He thinks the main street is up ahead, but he can't focus long enough to figure it out. He needs to get to Peter. 

Swallowing the taste of copper at the back of his throat and closing his eyes, he reaches out, tries to find the man. It's easier in smaller towns—there aren't as many people to sift through. A sharp pain snaps what little magic he has left back into himself, and he collapses against the wall, turning his back to it and sliding down to the ground. 

_Phone call it is._

He reaches out, concentrates until his magic pops and fizzles, and his cellphone appears in his hand. He has to take a moment to breathe. Even that small amount of effort drained him of energy he can't afford to lose now. The screen is cracked, but it still works, and he asks Siri to call Peter.

“ _Calling Creeper Wolf_ ,” the mechanical voice replies. He's going to have to change that. _Sexy Wolf._ Or maybe _Sex God_. That'll be fun around the pack. He presses the phone to his ear with shaking, bloody fingers and waits for the other man to answer, praying he isn't on a conference call.

“Miss me already?” the werewolf says when the line clicks, and it makes the young man smile.

“You're simply irresistible,” he replies, hating the tremble in his voice and the gurgle in his throat.

There's a short pause over the line. “Stiles, what's wrong?”

Stiles shifts with a grunt, spitting blood onto the ground beside him and swallowing with a wince. “Found my vamp nest.” He breathes wetly into the quiet of the alley, vision blurring as he stares at the brick wall across from him. “Or I guess they found me.” He chuckles, the sound empty in his ears. “'M gonna need a healing potion.”

Peter growls, the sound of shifting fabric and hurried footsteps crackling over the phone. “I told you not to do anything stupid.”

“Didn't plan on it,” Stiles confesses, listing to his right and catching himself before he hits the ground.

“Tell me where you are,” the werewolf demands, and the urgency in his voice makes the young man's chest ache. Or maybe that's the bite wounds.

“Fifth and...Lexington,” Stiles says, unsure of the cross street. “There's a bar, Anthony's. It's ten minutes from the hotel.”

“I'll be there in two,” Peter promises. “Tell me what happened.”

Stiles's bottom lip quivers. “Fucking stupid,” he says, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I'm so stupid.”

“Stiles,” Peter whines, and the young man's breath hitches. 

“Could have been fucking each other all this time. Doesn't seem fair.”

“I need you to focus, Stiles. Please.”

“Wanted you for so long,” Stiles whispers, feeling a weight press on his chest. It's getting harder to breathe. Harder to see. “I only just got you, Peter.” With a violent shake, his arm finally gives out, and the phone clatters to the ground from his limp hand. Peter shouts his name over and over, but Stiles just...can't. He's so tired.

His stomach churns with nausea, and he turns his head and pukes into a pile of trash beside him. His throat burns and his head pounds, and if he could just sleep, maybe he'd feel better. 

He just needs some sleep. 

“Stiles!” Peter shouts again, and this time it's not from the phone. Warm hands sit him up and cradle his face. “Stiles, wake up. Stay with me.”

The young man groans and keeps his eyes shut. The light hurts his head. “Don't feel good,” he mumbles. “Wanna go home.”

Something cool is pressed against his lips, and Peter says, “Drink this.” Stiles tries to shove it away as his stomach gives another sharp protest. “You'll feel better, I promise. But you have to drink it all.”

Stiles grunts but relents, parting his lips just a bit and letting Peter tip the cool liquid into his mouth. It tastes like peppermint, and it soothes his nausea as soon as he swallows. With a relieved sigh, he lets the heaviness in his limbs take over completely. 

“Hey,” Peter says with a sharp shake of the young man's shoulders, and Stiles jolts with the small amount of adrenalin he has left. “You can't fall asleep, sweetheart. Stay with me. I'll get us back to the hotel.” In an instant, Stiles is wrapped in warm arms, his pain disappearing as Peter carries him.

“They followed me fr'm the hotel,” the young man explains, breathing raggedly against the werewolf's neck. “They called me your mate. Said they wanted to send a message.” His words are slurred almost beyond comprehension. 

“You should have texted or called me,” Peter admonishes lightly. His heart thumps under Stiles's hand, and the young man bunches the fabric of Peter's shirt. Holding on. Holding...

“I tried,” Stiles whispers, and his chin falls forward onto his chest. “Sorry, Pe'er.”

Peter desperately begs him to stay awake, but darkness claws at the young spark's mind and drags him into the depths of quiet unknown.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles sleeps. And in that time, Peter paces and takes the young man's pain and ignores Derek's persistent phone calls. Only when there is a knock at the door on the third day does Peter dare step more than five feet from the young spark. And only because he knows there is a brooding, angry Alpha on the other side.

“I've been calling,” Derek says in lieu of a greeting, glancing Peter's disheveled appearance up and down. “What happened?”

Peter swallows and steps aside, letting his nephew brush past him into the room. Derek's nostrils flare, but he makes no remark about the scent of the room. It still smells like sex and blood. Peter hasn't allowed the room to be cleaned since they checked in, keeping their status as a permanent _do not disturb_. 

The Alpha's gaze lands on Stiles, and he starts towards the young man. Peter's warning growl makes him falter, and he takes slower, more calculated steps towards the bed. He crouches down and takes in Stiles's pale, sweaty face, the hitched breaths, the fading bite marks on his arms and chest and sides. Carefully laying a hand on Stiles's shoulder, he draws the small amount of pain building in the young man, watching the lines on Stiles's face ease.

Derek looks at his uncle expectantly, and Peter sags onto the end of the bed with a tired huff. “Stiles found a vampire nest. He went to scout the area by himself, and they...smelled me on him. They thought they were taking a werewolf's mate.”

Derek watches Peter carefully. “Did they?” 

Peter stares back at his nephew with a tired look of defeat, voicing no answer.

Derek turns back to Stiles. “And they let him go?”

“I don't think so. Stiles only told me so much before he lost consciousness, but the alley where I found him had the distinct stench of death. And the scent of Stiles's magic was everywhere. I think he took the nest out himself.”

The Alpha furrows his eyebrows. “You can smell Stiles's magic?”

Peter snorts. “You can't?”

Derek purses his lips and stands, fingers sliding from Stiles's skin as he unconsciously scents the young man. “Tell me where the nest is. I'll make sure no survivors are coming for you.”

“You shouldn't go alone,” Peter warns. 

The Alpha sighs and glances down at Stiles. “Well, you're clearly not leaving him, so I don't have much of a choice.”

Peter swallows and nods. “I'll send the address to your phone.” Derek grunts in approval and starts towards the door, halting when Peter stands and takes his arm. “Not that I presume you'll tell anyone about Stiles and I,” the older man starts, his trademark smugness and the confident set of his shoulders startlingly lacking, “but I'd be remiss if I didn't ask you to keep this to yourself.”

Derek nods minutely. “Of course, Peter.” He waits until the other man meets his gaze before he flashes his eyes. “But you'd better be careful with him.”

Something sparks in Peter's eyes, and a glimmer of a smirk graces his lips. “Trust me, nephew. If anything goes awry between us, Stiles will be the one coming out of it unscathed.”

He closes the door as Derek leaves and locks it, sliding the deadbolt into place. The heavy sound rings in his ears long after he settles on the bed beside Stiles and watches. And waits.

And prays.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles is dragged back into consciousness by pain and tremors that leave him crying and gasping for air until a searing hand rests on his shoulder, dulling the ache. He shakes and pants until he finds the strength to lift his eyelids a crack, groaning at the assault of light. 

“Stiles?” Peter leans into his line of sight, and he stares at the man until his muscles feel like lead. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

The young spark swallows on a dry throat, his voice no more than a rasp as he says, “Yeah.” Peter takes his hand, and Stiles notices the tremble in the werewolf's fingers. “Close call?”

The older man laughs, and the sound is painful to listen to. “Too close for my liking.”

“Sorry.”

Warm fingers gently run through Stiles's hair. The young man sighs and leans into the soothing touch. “Derek was here.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He searched the area where you found the nest.” Peter waits, but Stiles doesn't respond. “The bar was scorched from the inside, though the outside was completely untouched. There weren't any signs of survivors.”

“Good,” Stiles murmurs, carefully turning onto his side and hiding his face in Peter's neck. 

“You're amazing, darling,” the older man says softly, wrapping an arm around him and holding Stiles against himself. “Completely ridiculous and self-sacrificing and terrifying.”

Stiles hums in disapproval. “Go back to the compliments.”

“But you're astounding,” Peter continues. “And I wish I could make you promise not to do anything so reckless again.”

“Can't promise that,” the young spark snorts, letting Peter lean back so that their gazes can meet.

“I know,” the werewolf says, running the backs of his fingers down the side of Stiles's face. “But I can promise you I'll be there when you need me.”

Stiles searches the man's face and attempts a smile. “I'll always need you, Peter.”

Peter kisses him, slow and sweet and perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love to you guys!! *many many internet hugs*


End file.
